


Loss Ficlet: Bastille Day

by missclairebelle



Series: Loss (Ficlets) [22]
Category: Outlander & Related Fandoms, Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-21
Updated: 2018-05-21
Packaged: 2019-05-09 17:54:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14720852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missclairebelle/pseuds/missclairebelle
Summary: The scars of war open up on Bastille Day.





	Loss Ficlet: Bastille Day

**Author's Note:**

> Someone sent me a prompt saying that they dig fluff, but also dig some of the darker moments that come into J&C’s lives in the Loss universe. I have to agree with that wholeheartedly, so this ficlet was born.
> 
> Warning: This ficlet relates back to the Loss Ficlet Afghanistan. That ficlet discusses Jamie’s deployment in Afghanistan. Bastille Day discusses PTSD and war (only in vague terms). Please know that’s what’s going on before you click if it’s the kind of thing that will bother you.

##  **Bastille Day  
** **July 2017**

I had known that Jamie spoke French the first time we met.  On that first day in the distillery he had rolled a practiced “ _Beauchamp_ ” off when he read my name from a clipboard. The way he moved his mouth over the word, the sound that came from him – it was just like who had spent some time in France or had a really expensive tutor.

After chance brought us together ( _again and again_ ) and we had been together for a time, he began to pepper our quieter moments some sweet nothings in French _._  (Most memorable was _‘mon petit chou_.’ Largely because it made me laugh against his chest for two and a half minutes.   _Cabbage_. “Well, _okay_ ,” I had sighed, wiping tears from the corners of my eyes. His response only made me laugh harder: “Ye’re bein’ too literal, Beauchamp. It’s a **_colloquialism_** in **_French_**. I **_meant_** ‘ _chou_ ’ like the cream puff, but I guess you can be a cabbage, if that’s yer preference.”) ****

While Jamie had been out of town, Geillis and I had done our damnedest to put away two bottles of wine, and the idea had been born.  Apparently without thinking more than three minutes into the future, the two of us booked hotel rooms and airfare to Paris for Bastille Day.

_La Fête nationale.  Le 14 Juillet._

It turned out to be one of my dumber ideas.

The trip from Edinburgh had been awkward. Geillis and her husband of six weeks, Greg, gave each other the silent treatment in the car and on the plane.  They spoke around each other in the way schoolchildren play telephone.  

After we checked into the hotel and Jamie doled out keycards, we went to our separate rooms to change clothes.  When Geillis and Greg were fifteen minutes late meeting us in the lobby, I texted then called. A breathless Geillis had mumbled “ _get on wi’out us, Claire_.” I hung up when she let out a shriek that could only mean Greg’s wandering mouth had closed over _something_ in a way that felt _really good_.

Laughing, arms lazy around each other’s waists and fingers hooked in one another’s belt loops, Jamie and I hit the streets.

We spoke French for the hell of it.  We not only ordered lunch in French, we talked to _each other_ in French. We drank red wine and took cliché, arm’s length kissing selfies in front of the Eiffel Tower. Smirking, we corrected each other’s grammar and conjugation.  He picked me up by the waist in the Louvre so I could see the Mona Lisa over throngs of people.

When we got back to the hotel we made love on the balcony –– a blanket thrown over the railing to block prying eyes, our bodies slippery against each other in the summer heat.

Despite the light pink sunburn heating my cheeks, day one of our short Paris holiday had been _perfect_.  When we fell asleep, slipped between cool bedsheets, I had no idea what the next day held in store.

The following morning, we went to the military parade on the Avenue des Champs-Elysées and Jamie’s mood shifted.  “Are you okay?” I asked quietly, threading fingers into his hair.  He pulled away from the touch, jaw set.  

“Aye, Sassenach.  Just a wee bit hot, s’all.”

“I wasn’t thinking,” I whispered in his ear.  This time I kept my hands to myself.

It had taken me until this moment to put the pieces of his mood together.  He had seemed so enthusiastic about the idea when I had sheepishly presented him with the airfare and hotel reservation that Geillis and I had drunkenly put onto my Visa.  In fact, Jamie had positively beamed as the prospect of going to Paris for Bastille Day.  

His _exact_ words had been: “ _I’ve always wanted to go.  Good thinkin’.”_

But really.  

_How stupid had I been?_ A military parade?

_The machinery –– deep and humming, the noise ever-present even before it was in sight._

_The soldiers –– young, still soft along the jaws, holding guns and swords._

_The uniforms –– dress pleats, starched, heads decorated in the ornamental plumes of a military parade and not the hardened helmets designed to keep brains intact on the battlefield._

_The guns –– the **pop pop pop** of blanks fired, the resultant scream of delight from thousands of onlookers._

_The thunder of drums –– pavement shivering, threatening blood and sacrifice._

_The staccato click, step, lock, halt of it all._

_The regimentation._

**_Afghanistan_ ** _._

His military service had absolutely fucked him up.  Afghanistan had destroyed him.  The war had taken a piece of him and kept it, bloodying the rest of him in the process.  A piece that I had never known was missing.  It had been a part that, when removed, broke him. It sent him to live in a cave. It stole months of his life.  

These were things he had told me in bed the night he first confessed that he loved me –– a young boy lost, Jamie’s own blood pulsing under his fingers and mixing with the man dead on top of him, a brutal time in Germany where he hated everything and everyone while his body fought to heal itself, a recovery that was slow and ongoing.

“Claire.  I said I was _fine_.”  He did not redirect his eyes from the parade.

Having little choice in the matter, I took his word for it and offered him my boozy snow cone as a consolation.  He liked a dribble of blue raspberry from my index finger and just shook his head.

After the parade and away from the military pageantry of the day, we returned to an easy equilibrium of walking, shopping, and laughing along with Geillis’ off-color jokes about the beheading of Marie Antoinette. He even _looked_ like a different person.

But then came nightfall –– more food, music, dancing, alcohol, and fireworks.

It was my turn to buy, and I offered another round, asking, “Same for everyone?”

Geillis and Greg both nodded, more interested in the northward trajectory of Greg’s hand on Geillis’ sundress-bared thigh than changing their order.  

“Jamie?” I asked.  

He was staring –– eyes in the distance.  His profile was periodically lit with the warm flicker of the fireworks popping and crackling overhead.  

“Jamie?” I asked again, reaching out and touching his forearm.  He jumped a little, eyes taking a moment to focus.  “Drink?  Do you want the same?”

“Aye, fine, sure, Sassenach.”

“You alright?” I asked, feeling concern pinch my brows together.  For the second time that day, he shrugged my touch off of his shoulder.

“I said I’m _fine_.”  The look he gave me was unconvincing, but it was a look of finality that I was not inclined to second-guess.  The word “fine” was apparently taking root in his vocabulary now –– a meaningless word that did not reach his eyes.

I stood in line for what felt like an hour and finally walked off with four flutes filled with French 75s –– an overly-elaborate mix of gin, lemon juice, sugar, champagne, and a spiraled lemon peel. My heart started to hammer when I was close enough to see that Jamie was no longer at the table.  Picking up my pace, I made it through the crowd muttering “ _pardon_ ” more than a few times.

“Where is he?” I asked, a little breathless as I set the plastic flutes down on the small bistro table. I had slopped a good portion of the cocktails down the front of my tank top and shook the boozy concoction off of my damp fingers.

Geillis took one of the flutes, gave it a tentative sniff, and proceeded to tip the contents down her throat.  She was pink with gin and smacked her lips when the glass was empty. “Had to use the washroom.  Said he was bustin’ for a piss.  Seal broken, canna hold his liquor.”  

Greg smirked and kissed her on the underside of her jaw as she unwound the lemon peel from the rim of the flute.  

I sat, carefully crossing my legs under the table, and craned my neck to get a better look at the entrance to the rooftop party. The crowd was swelling, surging towards the stage and retreating as the music accompanying the fireworks rose and fell. Instead of looking up at the brilliant gold, silver, pink, red, and green explosions in the sky, I looked for Jamie with an expanding sense of dread.

He was nowhere to be found. But I wasn’t confident that I would even be able to spot him in the crowd despite his imposing height.

“He went down to our room?” I confirmed after a second song fell into its final chords. The reverberating whine of the guitar and the singer’s groaned verses about lost love made me sick in the pit of my stomach.

“Aye,” Geillis answered, stealing Greg’s drink and downing it easily.  “Is this some sort of sex thing? Because ye ken, Claire, that ye dinna have to be coy around me… around _us_ …”

I gave her a half-baked smile and rolled my eyes, sipping my own cocktail.  The cheap gin tasted like forest floor.

She did not take the hint and continued, “I’m all for ye having the sex of yer dreams here in wee Paris wit’ yer man.”

When I checked my watch for probably the ninth time in as many minutes, Geillis tapped me on the hand and winked.  

“Ye can go check on him. We’ll no’ be offended if ye need to be reminded of queen and country by yer strappin’ Scot.”

I stood, smoothing the wrinkles out of my shorts. “Very funny.  I’m just going to check on him quick.  I could use a freshening up, anyway. _We’ll_ be back.”

When I made it to our room, having skipped the queue at the elevator and taken the stairs down four flights, the bathroom door was shut. I could hear water running inside and stood for a moment, back to the wall, just thinking.

“Jamie?” I tried, stepping towards the door.  “I’m just––”

“I’ll be a minute.”  His voice was muffled _._

“Are you––”

“Claire, I said _I’m fine_.  Just a minute.”

I leaned against the wall, fingers tracing the fibers running through the wallpaper and eyes trained on the small sliver of white light coming from under the bathroom door.  I could only faintly hear the _pop_ , _bang_ , and _sizzle_ of fireworks outside of the window.  

I tested the door handle, attempting to be as quiet as possible, and realized he had not locked it.  I released it as slowly as possible, trying not to make a sound.

I heard him gulp for air –– a ragged gasping noise that sounded like the prelude to a panic attack. I reached for the door handle and pushed my way in.  

What I saw took my breath away.

Jamie was in the standalone porcelain claw-foot tub, his fingers wrapped around the edge and white at the knuckles.  The sink and the shower were both running, the mirror foggy.

“Jamie, what’s––”

“Fireworks.”  He did not turn to look at me.  “ _Fucking fireworks_.”

“Why didn’t you get me?”  The question sounded accusatory, but I had not meant it to be. I took a step into the bathroom and he finally looked at me.

“I dinna want to hurt ye.  These guys — the ones that came back… like me… they came back all fucked up. I dinna feel like hurtin’ anyone, let alone _you_ , but I canna say… how I’ll react if I hear it…”

The anguish accompanying his words felt like he had just pulled my heart out of my chest. He looked so lost sitting there in the claw foot tub –– hulking figure folded in the closest approximation of a ball as he could manage. The water was at his waist and his untucked button down floated just above his submerged shorts.

I stepped into the bathroom and quietly closed the door behind me, reaching into my back pocket for my cell phone.  

_I had to drown out the sound –– the fireworks, his own head, the beating of his heart that escalated the anxiety._ I pressed play on an instrumental album that I sometimes listened to during surgery.  I turned the volume up and set it on the counter.

“Do I help or hurt?”

“Do ye really need to ask?” He stared at me blankly for more than a few moments, just blinking. “Ye help. Of course, ye help.”

I nodded, shrugging out of my jean jacket and toeing off my sandals. His eyes fluttered closed as I stepped towards him, my shorts falling to the floor. “Scoot up a little. I’m going to sit behind you.”

He didn’t say a word as he gripped the sides of the bathtub and slid forward, knees coming to his chest and water sloshing against the sides. I slipped in behind him, urging him to lean back against my chest. I could feel his heart absolutely hammering in his chest and his back was tacky with sweat.

“This okay?” I asked, running my fingers over his wrist. Cautious. Tentative. His head nodded against my chest and I just stroked him, feeling the delicate bones in his wrist and the strong, hammering pulse under my thumb. “Relax. I know it’s easier said than done, but… you’re safe.”

His muscles stayed tense, and I tapped him expectantly on the underside of his wrist.

“Go loose. Like you’re made of rubber.”

He relaxed only infinitesimally, but I recognized it as a victory nonetheless.

“Closer,” he sighed, flipping his hand and grasping my wrist lightly. “Get closer.”

I wound my legs around his waist.

He dropped my wrist and held his hands up in front of us, just inches from his face.

“Look…”  His words were only _just_  audible.

“I see.”  And I _did_  see. He was trembling.

I brought my hands up to mirror his, hovering between his body and mine. Slowly, hoping my intention was clear, I brought our palms together and lowered them carefully until the backs of his hands were resting on my legs.

“There. Be still.”

His fingers continued to shake beneath mine.

“Focus on your breathing.”

“Ye sounds like a psychiatrist. I’ve seen plenty.”  I could tell that his laugh was him trying, pushing and shoving as he could at the feeling knocking around in his head.

“I had a four-week rotation in medical school,” I confessed, giving his hands a light squeeze.

His comment brought me back to the rotation.  

It had been awful –– there was something impersonal about surgery.  I could be an artist with a scalpel, carving out pieces of flesh and bone to heal a patient. I cared for them in the post-surgical phase, usually had a follow-up or two. Then I could typically say, “ _goodbye, have a nice life._ ”

But healing a _soul_ –– well that was something else entirely. There was something so deeply _familiar_ about unfolding someone’s _brain_. Their thoughts, experiences, and histories laid bare. The intimacy with strangers had been too much for me.

“I could barely stand it.”

“And yet, here ye are. Tending to a complete basket case.”

“Hey, be nice. You’re talking about the guy I love, there, soldier.”

_God. Why had I said that? **Soldier**_. It was an endearment that usually made him smirk or beam.  However, this was the last place that the nickname seemed appropriate.

He seemingly ignored it and said, “It was no’ the uniforms or the parade. It was the fireworks.  I canna stop thinkin’ of those men I lost, the _boys_ that we lost. Those boys I couldna protect, those fuckin’ kids who _left me alive_ in the dirt. I…”

His voice trailed off and the breaths he took were ragged.  I could tell that the mere thought had sent him reeling.  I pressed my lips to the back of his neck.  It was lightly pricked with sweat.

“What does it… I mean… chemically? There’s somethin’ no’ quite right wi’ me, aye?”

“You’re just fine. _Perfect_ really,” I whispered, knowing that what I was saying _felt so true_ but was _not helpful_.

“Explain it to me.”  

“Well, it’s neurological.  The reptilian brain… it is in charge of the fight or flight response… It, it––– the experience you went through –– it changes things.”

My brows furrowed and I concentrated on the gentle rise of his back against me as he breathed, the hammering of his heart in his chest as his mind backed out of that fight or flight response, the vulnerability that made him feel so physically _small_ as he leaned into me.

“ _It_ changes your brain chemistry.   _It_ means that you can’t process ––”

“Ye can say it, Claire… ye dinna need to dance ‘round it.”

I was holding my breath and tucked my chin over his shoulder.  I had never heard _him_ say it.

“Say it,” he said again, his voice plain as his hands finally stilled beneath my own. “I’ve no’ ever heard ye say it. Ye know what this is.  I know what it is.  Every doctor I’ve had since Afghanistan has agreed.   _So say it_.”

So I did.

“ _PTSD_.”

After a moment he mumbled, “ _thank you_.” ****

The release in him was almost immediate – his fingers loosened on the edge of the tub, the tension slipped from his shoulders and he relaxed fully into my chest, and his breath came out in a long, even sigh.

“Tell me something ye’ve never told me before.”

“Oh God.” I ran my thumb over the length of his thumb and down to the green veins lining the underside of his wrist. “What do you want to hear?”

His hands pulled free of mine and he dried his palms on his shorts. “ _Anything_. Story. Joke. Sing _God Save the Queen_. Just… please… _talk_.”

“Hmmmm. Well, I remember the first movie I went to in the cinema. Want to hear about that?”

“Oh, I’ve been waiting my whole life.” His voice was dry, touched by sarcasm, but I could tell that the answer just beneath was the surface was “ _yes_.”

“Well, I was five. My mum had this rule — no cinema until I was old enough to hold it throughout the movie and not to talk through the whole thing. She didn’t want to be one of those parents with a chattering child. That’s what she said, anyway.”

I caressed the almost golden hairs on the back of his hand. They came to attention beneath my touch.

“Anyway. We went to the cinema and it was a sensory overload. That was back when the little one-screen cinema by our house had a marquee — the huge black letters and the clear white bulbs. The Pantages. An organ player plodded along before the movie. And god… Jamie… it was like being absolutely high.”

The combined effect of the gin and this moment with the memory was making me feel a little bit sloppy. But the telling of it was having some effect on him. His breath coming slower now, his heartbeat evening and slowing.

“I can feel ye… the words… in yer chest, Sassenach.” I brought my head to the side of his face and turned him so his cheek was resting just above my breast.

“He bought us popcorn and licorice. When he gave me a full sugar Coke, I was in heaven. He said, ‘this is our secret, Peanut.’”

“Peanut?”

I breathed out, long and hot, my eyes stinging. It was a lot, recounting this story and being there with him. The feeling of Jamie’s panic, drawing him back until he was quivering with tension against me combined with the telling of this memory. The unearthing of an almost-forgotten nickname. I breathed. “Yes. He called me Peanut.”

He had looked so vulnerable curled in that bathtub, holding on for dear life.  The memory had just spilled from me –– spurred on by his need to feel some connection, to hear something new.

“My mam called me a sheòid.”  I made a soft noise and he clarified, “My hero.”

My heart swelled in my chest. I focused on the faucet and the small drip of water clinging to the nozzle, suspended in time. It fell slowly into the pool of water below, vanishing. I exhaled and sent my memory scattering to the depth of the pool below.

“When we walked home he carried me on his shoulders, his hands on my shins. I was screaming about tree branches and he ducked, weaving in and out, making plane noises.”

“You dinna remember much about yer parents, do ye?”

I shook my head, counting on him just _knowing_ that the silence meant “ _no_.”

“Tell me somethin’ else.  Tell me somethin’ _happy_.”

“Hmmm… well this one time, I went to a boring work gala and went home with this hot guy.  He had the kind of suit on that I could just _tell_  had been tailored by someone with a good eye.”

“Oh yeah? This hot guy… did he have a name?”

“A lady never kisses and tells.” I tightened my legs around him and sighed when he pulled my foot closer to his belly.  When he ran a solitary finger along the arch of my bare foot, I shivered a little and clung to him tighter.

“Och, weel.  So ye kissed him, this fella of yers?”

“Oh, I did. Did a fair amount of _and etcetera_ with this fella, too.”

“And would ye happen to be wrapped around this fella in a Parisian bathtub as he runs scared from fireworks like a bairn?”

“Not a bairn.” My hands skated up his stomach and over his chest.  “ _A sheòid_. Is that right?”

“The pronunciation, yes.”

“ _A sheòid_ ,” I whispered again, hoping it would sink in.  “I happen to be wrapped around my hero right now. And he’s one and the same with the guy from the gala.”


End file.
